Requiem for Immortals

Table of Contents

Other Books from Lee Winter

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Requiem for Immortals soundtrack

About Lee Winter

Other Books from Ylva Publishing

The Red Files

Collide-O-Scope

Driving Me Mad

Blurred Lines

Coming from Ylva Publishing

Four Steps

The Lavender List

Other Books from Lee Winter

The Red Files

Books in the Series The Law Game

Requiem for Immortals by Lee Winter

Archer Securities by Jove Belle

Daughter of Baal by Gill McKnight

Evolution of an Art Thief by Jessie Chandler

If Looks Could Kill by Andi Marquette

Acknowledgement

It takes a huge leap of faith to green-light a novel about a lesbian assassin cellist. Astrid at Ylva Publishing miraculously said yes, and allowed me to breathe life into Requiem. Thanks from the bottom of my heart for that decision, which changed so much for me.

My novel would not exist without my South African violinist mate, Milena, whose tales from the dark side of orchestras greatly enriched this book. She also helped find the key compositions that defined my cellist’s musical soul perfectly.

I would not have stayed sane without my beta reader Charlotte filling me with encouragement at every turn.

Thanks, finally, to the wordsmiths Sheri and Blythe, who poked at and massaged my words until even the perfectionist Requiem would be impressed. And that’s saying something.

Dedication

To Milena, a music immortal whose dark genius inspired every word.

Prologue

To say Requiem felt nothing was incorrect. A common misconception about those in her line of work.

Disdain was not nothing.

She adjusted her black leather gloves, ensuring they sat snugly in each indent between her fingers.

Requiem circled the barren room. The concrete floor was lit by a dust-filtered arc of moonlight streaming through the cracked window. With a measured step, she moved to the centre and studied the timber walls, which were as wet as the floor. She crouched and placed a large box on the ground. From it, she removed a Chinese paper lantern. Some people called them wish lanterns. Her father had bought one for Requiem when she was a little girl. Together they had made a wish and watched it sail into the night sky, propelled by its naked flame until it disintegrated and fell back to earth in pieces.

This lantern was made of light white paper that encased a bamboo ring with a tiny fuel cell in the centre. A teepee of six long-burning incense sticks had been stuck to the bamboo frame, pointing toward the fuel cell.

Requiem lit the flame and checked that each incense stick was also ablaze. They contained a resin that gave off a unique aroma. As the lantern rose, she stepped back. It was beautiful. Like the perfect stillness of a lake at dawn or the soft curve of a woman’s bare breast.

It bobbed against the dusty ceiling, casting an ominous glow over the room. After watching it for a moment, she turned and left, closing the door firmly behind her.

Requiem slid onto her motorcycle, a Kawasaki Ninja H2, and pulled her small, silver MP3 player from her vest pocket. She pressed play, verified on the screen that the volume was at exactly the level she desired, and then put the earbuds in. After she zipped up her leather jacket and slid on her helmet, she revved the engine and roared away.

The soul-cleansing strains of Arvo Pärt’s Fratres (String and Percussion) played on.

* * *

Three days later, Melbourne’s Herald Sun reported that a man, found in the hogtied position, had been burnt to death in a small room in an abandoned building. Squatters had stumbled upon his remains and alerted police.

The newspaper noted that, over the past seven weeks, the derelict industrial estate had been targeted by an arsonist who had set small, contained fires. So, on the night of the blaze, fire units had not responded to reports of another incident. They were unusually busy, and it was deemed a waste of resources.

Dental records determined that the deceased was a career criminal wanted for the torture and assault of the daughter of a Melbourne crime family boss, Carlo Trioli.

The Victorian Arson and Explosives Squad told the media they were initially baffled after discovering a small, melted, plastic substance in a room that had been doused in petrol. In addition to the petrol fumes, there was also a distinct smell they couldn’t place.

Herald Sun police sources later identified the plastic as being from a fuel cell commonly used in wish lanterns.

Someone clearly got their wish for this individual, a source said. Investigations are continuing.

Chapter 1

Natalya Tsvetnenko glanced around the packed concert hall, seeking one face among many. The July mid-year launch of the Victorian Philharmonic Orchestra’s program was taking place on an unseasonably warm night and had attracted the who’s who of Melbourne’s cultural elite. And, much to her satisfaction, it had lured in a particular reclusive chemical entrepreneur.

Uli Busch was an enormous man. The CEO of a German corporation, BioChem Farming Solutions, used a polished silver cane to walk and wheezed with every step. His sway was exaggerated owing to two knee replacements and, so rumour had it, a once badly broken back.

Natalya drew her gaze back to her sheet music, listening intently for the end of the movement. She lifted her bow, placing it precisely, and drew a deep, guttural growl from her cello.

Four minutes, twelve seconds later, she paused as the lead violinist began her solo.

Her gaze drifted back to Busch’s ruddy face.

One might think he would be an exceptionally easy target to erase from the mortal coil. Natalya knew better.

It wasn’t that he rarely left his luxury yacht, which was moored in a different location each day. Natalya had a well-placed insider within Victoria’s close-knit yachting fraternity. She already knew what he had for breakfast (nine sausages, four buttered Brötchen, and a black coffee), how often he washed his 4XL Y-fronts (not often enough), and which high-class escorts he preferred (Sasha on Fridays, random redheads on weekends).

No, it was his bodyguards—a quartet of mean-eyed ex-Mossad agents who had been so ruthlessly trained that everyone in her business gave them a wide berth. Facing just one of these vicious rottweilers would be testing. But four?

Well. She did enjoy a challenge. At least, her lethal alter ego certainly did.

Natalya had seen a lot of Busch over the years. The billionaire happened to be a devoted classical music fan. His collection of official live recordings was reputed to be the finest anywhere. Every major orchestra in the world had been graced with his imposing presence at least once every season.

His need for bodyguards had a lot to do with how Busch made his money. He liked to bulk-buy any pesticide outlawed by a country for next to nothing. Sometimes, instead of purchasing it, they would pay him to destroy it. Instead, he would on-sell it to Western countries which hadn’t yet implemented the bans Europe had, or poorer nations susceptible to bribery.

When things got too hot, such as BioChem being linked to too many birth defects or farm worker deaths, he’d move on to the next unwitting nation, rinse, and repeat.

At the moment, Busch’s obnoxiously named yacht, Breakin’ Wind, was moored off Victoria, which meant he was busy selling his toxic wares to Australians. And that, in turn, explained why Requiem now had a wealthy Australian client with a farmer brother who was on life support after he’d tested BioChem’s newest pesticide.

The client needed Busch to know exactly what his brother had endured. He had sought out Requiem because two previous assassins had met ends too grisly to be explained to their loved ones. The client had learned a valuable lesson about settling for less than the best.

She had already anticipated this and prepared accordingly.

Busch, Natalya knew, had a special fondness for Tchaikovsky, which was the Victorian Philharmonic’s theme for its new season. A theme Natalya had casually suggested four months ago when she’d heard of the second assassin’s failure.

If she’d been wrong about the client likely approaching her, it hardly mattered. She liked Tchaikovsky well enough to play him all season.

Natalya snatched glimpses of Busch in the VIP box throughout the rest of the concert, his beefy hand mopping his brow with a white handkerchief.

She rose with the rest of the orchestra as they duly marked their respect for the composer, taking in the ecstatic applause. Normally, Natalya would be on a high from performing. Tonight, though, she was in a rare and uncomfortable position: she was mixing business with pleasure for the first time.

The question remained, which was the business, and which the pleasure?

In her twenty-four years of dual careers, she had never found an answer for that. Each had highs that were unmatched.

She packed up her cello, nodded to her colleagues who were buzzing about the after-party, and then asked the VPO’s security guard to lock her instrument away for a few hours. She reached for a glossy, black handbag she’d prepared for the occasion. Natalya removed from it her MP3 player, pressed play, inserted the earpieces, and slowly walked the two blocks to the VIP after-party.

With each step, as Arvo Pärt emptied her mind, she shed Natalya Tsvetnenko and became Requiem. Her eyes focused. Her expression flattened out to neutral. Her mind replayed over and over what she had to do, sharpening, homing in on the most dangerous aspect—the last thirty seconds before Uli Busch would take his final breath.

She would kill one of the most protected men on earth in front of his vicious lapdogs, and no one would say a word. Busch would probably smile at her, never knowing he’d heard his last Tchaikovsky.

Pedestrians stepped away from Requiem as they neared her. She was peripherally aware of them but did not make eye contact. No better than cattle. Slow. Blinkered. Weak. Telegraphing their every move.

She did not even consider herself to be a member of the same species.

Calmness settled over her, and her movements became liquid as she smoothed out any errant thoughts.

A block from the venue, she stopped at a bench, removed her earphones, and sifted through her bag. She pulled out a small pearl ring from a protective box, and positioned it on her left, middle finger. Sliding the bag back over her shoulder, she resumed walking.

The after-party was taking place at Nova, a spacious, modern, inner-city nightclub, supposedly the hottest it spot in town this month. It was the closest place to the VPO that could easily handle the swell of 400 dignitaries expected tonight.

Nova was wedged between a kebab shop and an Italian restaurant and had a rabbit’s warren of rarely used back alleys behind it. Only the street cleaners knew where this tight tangle of back streets went, and few people ever had a need to use them.

At night, the darkened area was silent, save only for the faint rumble of traffic from the main road. Not so at Nova.

The theme inside the club was Phantom of the Opera, and Requiem had to admire the work that had gone into the decorations, even though it seemed a baffling choice for a Tchaikovsky season. She supposed the party planner’s limited imagination on musical themes could only extend to the populist. Either that or a long-dead Russian composer was considered too uncool.

Ghostly white masks hung from fishing wire at different heights from the ceiling. Waitresses swished by with smoking cocktails as the music thumped around them. The venue’s corners were as dark as tar, giving ready hiding places to those who might need them. She would have to be exceptionally careful.

Busch stuck to drinks supplied by his bodyguards. Wise. Especially given several assassins over the years had attempted to get to him through his food or drink. She sneered. How unoriginal. Far too easy to anticipate.

The German usually stayed at these things for four or five drinks, no more. Requiem picked her position and never took her gaze off his face. Waiting.

Why, Natalya! a perky voice said beside her. What a lovely ring. I’ve never seen it before. Wherever did you get it?

Requiem snapped her head around, schooling her features into a pleasant mask. Violinist Amanda Marks. Concertmaster of the VPO. High priestess of the social media crowd and adoring arts luvvies.

She glanced at her ring and back at Marks. An associate, Requiem answered honestly. Who wished me well. She shot her a thin smile.

Oh. Amanda pouted. She probably hoped the story came with a salacious romance. The irritant opened her mouth to ask more, but Requiem had at last spotted her cue.

Busch grunted, muttered something to his closest bodyguard, and eased his thick jacket off his shoulders. Behind him stood a man with sharp eyes who took it.

Show time.

Do you… Amanda began.

Requiem waved towards her ear, feigning being unable to hear over the music, which had turned into some not-even-slightly-music techno mess.

She stalked away, letting the violinist get back to her adoring groupies who were far too old and immaculately dressed to be asking for selfies. Not that it stopped them. As she left them, her gaze fell on one woman in her early to mid-thirties with brown hair and fine features.

This one was watching everything with an awed expression, as though she didn’t get out much. Since she was within the periphery of Marks’s posse, the woman’s judgment was clearly flawed. Suddenly, the mousy creature turned, and their eyes met. Then, equally suddenly, she smiled at Requiem. For no reason whatsoever.

Requiem paused in surprise. What had possessed the woman? Did she just randomly smile at strangers? Was this another of those maddening, socially expected female things?

Requiem dismissed her and strode onwards to her goal. She forced herself not to quicken her pace. She headed into a darkened area, lit only by a green fire escape exit sign.

Requiem looked around again. Nothing but a deserted, dead-end corridor vibrating faintly with the background bass thump of the (non) music from three rooms over.

Still in the filmy, long, black evening dress she had performed in, she dropped easily to a crouch. She turned her hand face up, rotated her pearl ring, and gently unscrewed the hollow bauble, leaving only a flat, round base with a tiny, threaded ridge.

In the centre, jutting up from this base, was the thinnest needle that money could buy—almost invisible to the human eye and no longer than two grains of rice. Such needle nibs were remarkably easy to acquire—one only needed to find a pharmacy selling diabetic supplies.

Taking a deep breath, she reached into her bag, opened a small vacuum-sealed container, and gently rolled a gel capsule onto the floor. It was the size of a pill, but its contents—a small amount of liquid—were anything but medicinal.

Requiem flipped her hand and lowered the tiny spike until it pierced the capsule’s thin skin. She wiggled her hand slightly, ensuring the tip was liberally coated by the liquid within. She reached for the tweezers in her bag and with painful slowness pulled the gel pill from the wet needle tip. She dropped the tweezers and pearl bauble back into her bag.

Requiem rose, cautiously keeping her hand face down as though she were about to pat a dog. She kicked the gel pill into a gap in the old timber floorboards.

As she walked back to the party and made her way to her conductor, Anthony Lyman, she was careful to avoid any jostles. At least it looked like she was headed towards Lyman. As it happened, he was talking to Busch.

The sharp scent of the German’s perspiration filled her senses. Four suspicious ex-Mossad agents snapped their gazes toward her to assess the possibility of threat. They relaxed when the conductor waved her over and introduced her as his prodigiously talented cellist. He did this condescending routine over the VPO’s women every time he had a VIP to impress.

For once, she didn’t mind. It suited her purposes.

Now, Natalya, Lyman continued, have you met Mr Busch yet? Mr Busch, Natalya Tsvetnenko. The hopeful look in his eye told her he was desperate to bail on the man. Her nostrils twitched at his steep body odour, and she understood only too well Lyman’s eagerness.

No, we haven’t met. She smiled and held out her hand to shake Busch’s. It’s an honour.

Well, I must mingle, Lyman said hastily and scuttled away. Requiem ignored him, focusing her entire being on this moment. Blood rushed in her ears, her heart thumped faster. She controlled her breathing, and a soothing coolness settled over her.

Busch shook her hand firmly, his sweating, meaty grip engulfing her fingers.

She smiled again, hiding her revulsion, and casually brought her left hand up under the fleshy forearm of the hand shaking hers, presidential style, and then pressed firmly.

The needle pushing into his flesh from her ring was so fine it was highly unlikely he felt it. She exhaled slowly as Busch merely smiled benevolently at her and started to talk.

Your favourite composer, Busch asked, pinning her with a stare. Who is this? Why is he this?

She carefully lowered both hands, acutely aware of the position of the lethal needle nib, and studied his white sleeve. There was about a thirty percent chance of a tell-tale pinprick of blood being left behind as the needle withdrew.

No red spot appeared.

Arvo Pärt, Requiem replied, satisfied. A modern composer who fills the soul that is empty, and empties the soul that is full.

He looked at her, clearly startled by her answer. She gave him another smile, mentally ticking away how many seconds the toxin had been pumping around his system, doing its damage. It was the most fast-acting poison known to man. It was completely natural, but unlike a snake or spider bite, there was no cure. A single drop could kill ten men.

Very soon, Uli Busch’s breathing would become impaired. A little after that, the mere act of inhaling would start to feel impossible.

By the time he fell to the floor, twitching in what might look like a seizure, his entire diaphragm would stop rising and falling with a paralysis that forced a person to hold his breath forever.

That’s when the terror would strike—and, if she calculated correctly, it would be exactly what a young farmer on a wheat station felt when he, too, discovered he could no longer draw breath. The panic at not knowing what was happening. The horror of wondering if this was his last moment. BioChem’s CEO was moments away from becoming intimately acquainted with his victims’ pain.

Busch turned, barking for his men to provide him more wine. He turned back, mouth opening, most likely to offer her a drink, but Requiem was already slipping away. Steadily she walked, ignoring the greetings of other orchestra members as she disappeared into the remote fire exit passage.

Requiem gingerly reattached the pearl bauble over the deadly needle, then slid the ring off, put it in the container, and sealed it. Under the light of the neon green exit sign, she dropped it in her bag, and then rapidly dressed herself in the leathers, boots, and gloves she'd stashed in a dark corner here right before the concert.

She had tested the fire exit two nights ago for an alarm. There wasn’t one. She eased the door open, slung her bag over her shoulder, and slipped out into the darkness.

Halfway down the fire escape, she heard the first shout for an ambulance. Good luck. Busch would be dead before it arrived; possibly before they even placed the call.

When they examined his body, they would see no entry wounds.

She navigated the twists and turns of the back alley to find her Ninja H2 waiting for her, crouched beneath a lone security light. The moths darting all around provided a mottled lighting effect to the area—nature’s own mirror ball.

She’d planned ahead with her Ninja. If Busch’s rottweilers actually got a clue, she would need a demon of a machine which topped 400 km/h. Even if they didn’t catch on, Requiem, unlike Natalya, travelled no other way.

She stowed her bag in a small custom compartment at the rear of the motorbike, slid onto the seat, and settled. By rote, she reached for her MP3 player. Her maestro would strip any mess from her mind, tucking away unschooled thoughts like errant hairs behind an ear, and ground her.

As she lifted her helmet, she saw it. The faintest movement glinted in the shine of the helmet’s glossy black paint. Requiem reacted instantly, diving from her bike and rolling away just as a figure in freefall dropped from a drainpipe and landed lightly a foot away.

How the hell had the rottweilers worked it out? This particular quartet’s skills lay in torture and knife-work, not in grasping the complexities of a brilliantly conceived plan. Requiem was irritated that somehow she’d given herself away. She must have made a mistake somewhere. That did not happen.

At least there was only one of them to contend with. The other three were likely still trying to save their dying master.

She twisted away from the shadowy form just as it lunged at her, and Requiem kicked out blindly. Her foot connected, and she pushed back, the force of her powerful thigh flipping the attacker’s body over. There was a startled oomph as he landed on his back and the air whooshed from his lungs.

Requiem threw herself onto the figure, and flipped her wrist up, positioning the base of her hand to break the attacker’s nose and ram the bone fragments up into the brain. Just as she was about to strike, her attacker’s head rolled to one side and light fell on the face. Short black hair, dark, narrow eyes, a flat nose, and curling, mean lips greeted her.

She stopped.

Mean, sensuous lips.

Her hand froze. Sonja bloody Kim. The best bodyguard of Ken Lee’s gang, not to mention his enforcer and occasional assassin.

The Korean was lethal at close range and slippery as hell to pin down. She was a champion wrestler who had an ability to twist men’s bones like pipe cleaners. And that was before you got to her skills with concealed weapons. She loved to play with kunai throwing knives.

You! Requiem spat. Tell me you’re not freelancing for Busch now? She grabbed a fistful of Sonja’s shirt, wrenched it up, and then slammed her head into the ground. You do pick the bottom feeders.

Says the great Requiem who has no loyalty to any family, Sonja shot back.

She bucked beneath Requiem who, despite being almost twice her size, struggled to contain her. In the middle of it all, Sonja inched her left hand toward her waistband.

Why the hell can’t the families stay in-house? Sonja complained, scowling. Her hand suddenly flew to her waist but Requiem snatched it and pinned it by Sonja’s ear.

As though her sneaky move hadn’t just been interrupted, Sonja continued, "But no, they choose you for the dirtiest work. A freelancer! You, who’d kill any of them for the highest price. It’s so stupid. They are weak!"

They like my creative touch. Requiem smashed Sonja’s head into the road again. "I send a message. Sometimes all they want is the message. But you? You’re about as subtle as a two-by-four, with the brains to match."

She slipped her hand under Sonja’s T-shirt, searching for whatever Sonja’s fingers had been creeping towards, and pulled out the knife tucked in her waistband.

Requiem held it up to the light and examined it.

How many others? she asked, indicating the weapon.

Sonja shook her head, refusing to answer.

Requiem placed it at her throat. How many others?

"Shi bai kepu seck yi!"

Even if I had an Oedipal complex, my mother is dead, Requiem said coolly. So no, I can’t.

You speak Korean? Sonja started.

Just the essentials, Requiem said. Last chance. She scraped the edge of the knife lightly down Sonja’s jaw. The fine hairs on her cheek bent under the blade and then sprang up again. How many more of these are you hiding? Or shall I strip you naked to find them?

Bite me.

You’d probably like that, Requiem said. She offered a dangerous smile. She took the blade and slashed from the top of the T-shirt to the hem.

Pale brown skin, criss-crossed with scars, greeted her. She moved the knife to Sonja’s white sports bra and sliced it in one motion. Each half fell to the side.

Sonja stared up at her pugnaciously, but there was something odd about her expression.

Requiem considered Sonja for a moment, and then her gaze dropped. She took in the muscled, flat stomach, and slid her attention higher to soft mounds tipped with brown nipples, hardening in the night air.

Like what you see? Sonja asked, her voice teasing and provocative. Requiem didn’t bother to respond. Pleased as she was with the view, this was just business.

She returned the knife to Sonja’s throat and slid her other hand around and then shoved it under Sonja’s shredded T-shirt between her body and the road. Skidding her fingers over the imperfections of scars and softness in the spaces between, Requiem